


Fixer-Upper

by Mireille



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-20
Updated: 2004-07-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: Cordelia's learned her lesson about fixer-uppers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Doyle/Cordelia ficathon](http://www.livejournal.com/users/settiai/214449.html). The requester wanted a fluffy/comfort moment after "The Bachelor Party." This therefore contains a lot of spoilers for that episode.

This was going to be fine, Cordelia told herself, although she couldn't help wincing when she opened her door and saw the shirt Doyle had chosen to wear tonight. It was bad enough that she didn't think Xander Harris would have been caught dead in it, and that was saying something. 

But this wasn't a date, so it didn't reflect on her own taste. She'd been very clear about that--in her own mind, at least. She hadn't spelled it out to Doyle, but she figured she probably didn't have to. Surely he knew that since the world didn't seem to be ending today, she hadn't agreed to go out on an actual date with him. Even if he'd been brave, and saved her life, and--

No. No more fixer-uppers. She'd _promised_ herself. 

"You look fantastic, princess," Doyle said, grinning at her. 

"I know. It's always good to hear, though. And you look..." She trailed off, hoping a bright smile would take the place of an actual compliment, since she couldn't think of one. 

He didn't seem to notice. "Ready to go, then?"

Cordelia nodded. "Phantom Dennis? I won't be out too late, I promise," she called, as she stepped out into the hallway, taking Doyle's arm. At least he seemed to be in slightly better spirits than he had earlier today, when he'd moped around so much that she'd almost wished he'd have a vision to give him something to do. Only almost, because Angel was in Sunnydale, and she didn't think much of Doyle's chances against most of the things the Powers sent him visions about, not with just her to help him.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said as they walked down to the street.

"What, go out for a couple of hours with a friend?" she said. "Yeah. It's a horrible punishment for me. So much less fun than all that nothing I have waiting for me at home."

"Glad I'm better than nothing, then." Doyle started walking a little faster, although still not too quickly for her to keep up.

"Just barely, but you do qualify," she said, grinning at him. Then, after a moment, she said, "Do think Angel's okay?"

"Yeah, of course," he answered immediately. "He's tough. Whatever that was in the vision, he can handle it."

She nodded. "Yeah. But, I mean, Buffy..."

"You think he can't handle Buffy?"

"He'd better not be handling Buffy. Him handling Buffy is why I keep a stake in my purse."

"Seeing Buffy, I meant, not _handling_ her. Though from that vision, she was quite the hottie--well, if you go for gorgeous blondes, anyway."

"Oh, please. I have heard enough about the hotness of Buffy Summers to last me _Angel_ 's lifetime." She realized she was frowning and made herself stop. Doyle would probably never even _meet_ Buffy, and besides, she didn't care if he thought she was hot. She just didn't want to have to hear about it.

Doyle shrugged. "Consider the subject dropped. But I meant, you think Angel can't handle seeing Buffy again." 

"Let me think about that for a minute. She's the love of his life, who happens to be a vampire slayer--kinda messy since he happens to be a vampire--and he can't touch her without risking turning into an evil soulless psycho killer who tried to end the world the last time he got the chance to come out and play? I think it'll be just peachy, don't you?" She rolled her eyes. "Of course he can't handle it. Be prepared for some industrial-strength undead angst when he gets back."

"If he's not evil, you mean."

"Gee, Doyle, you really know how to cheer a girl up, don't you?"

"I do my best."

"Anyway, I'm supposed to be the one doing the cheering up, remember?"

Doyle shook his head. "I'm fine. Harry and me, that was over a long time ago. I'm just relieved that I didn't have to have my brain eaten by her fiancé." 

"Yeah. I think we're all pretty glad about that part."

"What, no cracks about how he never would have been able to find it?"

She shook her head, smiling. "I’m serious, Doyle. I'm just glad you're okay."

He smiled back at her. "Thanks. It's good to know that I'd be missed."

"Of course you'd be missed!"

"I'm sure the Powers that Be would work out something with the visions, if they need Angel that much--"

She smacked him in the chest. "We'd miss _you_ , you big idiot. And don't make me say it again."

Doyle nodded. "All right, I guess I knew that. It's just good to hear sometimes, especially when--" He broke off. "We're here."

Cordelia waited until they were sitting down and Doyle had brought their drinks--beer for him, diet coke for her--before she said anything else. "Especially when what?"

"Huh?"

"You said it was good to hear, especially when--and then you stopped talking. Especially when, what?"

"Oh." He shrugged. "You know. Under the circumstances."

"You mean your ex-wife being engaged to a demon? That 'especially when'?" She felt a little guilty when she saw Doyle wince, but it was for his own good. Brooding and repressing weren't healthy. Just look at Angel. He brooded and repressed all the time, and he definitely wasn't Mr. Mental Health 1999. 

Giving her a weak smile, Doyle said, "Yeah, that 'especially when.' I guess I wasn't quite as over her as I thought I was."

Cordelia nodded. "Guess not."

"Still, what's done is done, right? She's moved on, even if she isn't marrying the guy any more, and so have I."

"What a coincidence. That's just what I've been thinking today--that you are definitely a man who has moved on. I can really tell, you know? You have that whole moved-on aura about you. As opposed to the slightly pathetic and miserable not-so-much-moved-on one you _could_ have had."

He sighed. "All right, maybe I'm not quite as moved-on as I'd been thinking I as, but I'm getting there." Then, grinning, he said, "I do the moving-on thing better than Angel does, at least."

"Please. That's like saying you do the sanity thing better than that homeless guy outside the doughnut shop, the one who says Lucille Ball sends him psychic messages from the other side."

"In our line of work, we don't really get to call that crazy, you know."

"Lucille Ball, Doyle. Unless you're going to tell me that the Powers That Be are named Lucy and Ricky--"

"Fred and Ethel, actually." She gave him a dirty look, and he shrugged. "Okay, I get your point, comparing myself to Angel isn't really all that impressive, given where he is right now." He took a drink of his beer, and was silent for a moment before he said, quietly, "Comparing myself to Angel may not be such a great idea in general, huh."

"Well, he definitely has you beat in terms of brooding. Also in being dark and mysterious." She grinned. "Plus, he has the coat."

"I could get a coat like that."

"It wouldn’t look the same."

"No, probably not." He gave her a wry smile. "Guess it doesn't count unless there's an actual hero to go along with the clothes, does it?"

She sighed. "The coat doesn't count because you'd look silly in it. You don't have the right build to wear something dramatic and billowing."

He nodded. "And the not being a hero part is all just a lucky coincidence."

"Is that what you really think?"

"That since I'll never manage to look like a hero, it's probably lucky that I'm not actually a hero? Seems pretty reasonable to me."

"You saved me," Cordelia said quietly. 

"That vampire was after me. It was my problem," he said. "And I didn't want you to get hurt."

"Which is what I just said."

"It's not the same as Angel swooping in all dark and heroic, his coat doing that billowing thing, and rescuing the damsel in distress." He shrugged. "I'm still glad I did it, don't get me wrong. I'd do it again if I had to."

"God, could you _be_ more dense?" she muttered. 

His grin was faint and very obviously fake as he said, "Probably. Give me a minute, and I'm sure I will be."

"You _saved_ me," she repeated. "No, it's not the same as Angel doing it. Because Angel's a _vampire_. Extra-strong, extra-fast, with those freaky vampire senses and everything. So, you know, saving me from a vampire? Not that hard for him. But you're just a guy. You could have been killed. And you did it anyway." 

"If there's a point, I’m not getting it. I'm trying, but I'm just not getting it."

"My point is that I don't know how you can know that and tell me you're not a hero. Not a superhero, maybe. But a hero? You're definitely one of those, and no amount of bad dressing and sleazy behavior can cover it up." Then, grinning, she added, "Well, not completely." 

Doyle didn't say anything, and for a minute, Cordelia thought she'd said something wrong--realized she didn’t want to say anything wrong. She wanted him to understand how much that had meant to her, particularly after her date had demonstrated just what a pathetic wimp he really was. Damn Angel and Doyle, anyway, for making her think a guy should be brave and interesting and someone she could actually talk to. Being shallow was way easier. And she'd done her share for the fixer-uppers of the world, anyway. She had her karmic brownie points; she didn't have to do this again. 

Liking Doyle was one thing. It was hard not to like him, unless she made a conscious effort to be Super-Bitch Cordy. But this was different; this was about noticing things like how green his eyes were when they weren't totally bloodshot, and that he actually had a pretty nice smile. He smiled a lot, too, even when there didn't seem to be a lot to smile about, in her opinion. It made a welcome change from Angel. And he was her friend, and one of the two people in Los Angeles who didn't think of her as just some failed wanna-be actress, and that meant a lot more to her than she used to think something like that ever could. 

And she was obviously starting to crack up, because that was starting to feel like an explanation to herself of why it wouldn't be completely dumb and slightly weird to _date_ Doyle, and she was just _not_ going there. Not today, not tomorrow, not fifty years from now--at which point Doyle probably still wouldn't have learned to dress himself with anything even vaguely resembling style. 

So there wasn't a good explanation for why she felt so much better when Doyle looked up at her, grinning, and said, "Thanks, princess. That means a lot to me."

She just smiled back at him, taking another sip of her soda so she didn't have to think too much about what to say next. 

Doyle spared her from that, though, because he got to his feet. "I need another beer. Do you want anything?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm good."

"Okay, then. I'll be right back." 

Doyle had no sooner disappeared into the crowd around the bar when his chair was pulled out from the table and turned around for someone to sit in. Cordelia glared at the man-- probably somewhere in his late twenties, about Angel's size, but without any of Angel's muscles, and the start of a beer gut. _Not_ her type. Not even not-her-type the way Doyle wasn't her type. Even talking to this guy would be beyond slumming. "Excuse me," she said, summoning the tone of voice she'd used to mock the losers in high school. "That seat's taken."

The guy grinned at her. "Now it's taken by me. If anyone's dumb enough to leave a babe like you sitting by herself, he deserves to go home alone."

"The 'babe' doesn't want you sitting with her. I'm here with somebody."

The guy looked around. "I don't see anyone," he said, sliding his chair a little bit closer to hers and putting his hand over hers. "My name's Jake. What's yours, beautiful?"

"I'm here with my boyfriend," she lied, pulling her hand away from him. "And he's seriously going to kick your ass if he comes back here and finds you bugging me." Damn it, why couldn’t this creep have been a vampire or something? Then she could have staked him. Kicking him might work, if he got too pushy, but right now... yeah, she'd rather deal with the evil undead than just a jerk in a bar. 

He laughed. "The old invisible-boyfriend thing again? Come on, now, you come in here dressed like that, and you have to expect a little attention."

 _No_ , Cordelia thought, _my invisible boyfriend--or at least, the invisible guy who sometimes seem to think he's my boyfriend--is at home, probably rearranging everything in the house to make sure I know he's not happy I went out_. And maybe if she said that, this guy would decide she was too scary to mess with, but she'd rather not bring the crazy out in public unless she had to. "Fine. You've given me attention. Now get the hell away from me."

"This guy bothering you, Cordelia?" Doyle said, setting a bottle of beer down on the table and glaring up at him. 

"This is the boyfriend who's going to kick my ass?" Jake snorted. 

"Boyfriend?" Doyle muttered, but at a look from Cordelia, he nodded. "Yeah, that's right," he said. 

Cordelia got up, taking Doyle's hand. "He didn't think you were real, honey," she said, making sure to stand very close to him. Doyle's hand was warm and a little rough and definitely not clammy like Jake's had been, and she was so not caring about any of that, honestly.

"And I still don't think he can kick my ass," Jake said. 

"Look, the lady isn't interested, okay?" Doyle said. "No hard feelings, right? It's the accent. Chicks go for it."

"Chicks?" Cordelia whispered, making a mental note to give Doyle a hard time about that for the next six months, at least. Even if she got her big acting break soon and left Angel Investigations far behind, she'd make a point of calling on a regular basis to tell him off. 

Jake snorted. "Your loss, honey. If you want a shrimp like him...." He grinned at Doyle. "With that kind of taste in men, my money's on 'big lezbo,' pal. Hate to break it to you." He stood up, going over to join a group of guys standing near the pool table.

"Jerk," she muttered as she sat back down. 

Doyle pulled the chair back to its previous place and sat down. "If it helps, I never thought you were a lesbian. Okay, except this one time when I got this mental image of you and that detective pal of Angel's...." He grinned as she kicked his ankle under the table. "I'm joking, I swear." 

"Jerk," she said again, but this time she grinned back. 

"Yeah, but harmless and charming and willing to beaten up by really big guys in bars, keep that in mind," he said, still grinning at her. 

"I know. And thanks. I couldn't think of a better way to get him to go away that didn't involve a lot of violence, and this dress is dry-clean only--and with what Angel pays me, no way can I afford the stain removal when I bleed all over it." 

He nodded. "Listen, don't worry, okay? I know you were just making up a story to chase off Cro-Magnon man, there. No problems there. I mean, I'm not even looking for anything, what with technically just having gotten divorced a couple of days ago." 

Cordelia frowned, slightly, trying to work out whether that was Doyle trying to play it cool, or whether he was serious. And she realized, with a dawning sense of oh-my- _god_ -why-do-I-keep-doing-this-to-myself, that she hoped he was just playing it cool. 

And he was, probably, so she wasn't going to worry about it. Right now, tonight, she was just going to have a nice quiet talk with her surprisingly-good friend Doyle, and she'd worry about the rest later, once Angel got back and they knew whether they were dealing with "broody, but noble" or "unspeakably evil, but with improved fashion sense."

Doyle said something she didn't quite hear, and grinned at her, and she smiled back. A fixer-upper might not be so bad, not when she knew there was a pretty decent guy under the bad clothes. Kind of like those people who bought ugly old houses and turned them into gorgeous period restorations. 

She grinned again, twirling the swizzle stick the bartender had unnecessarily put in her drink. That was a metaphor that even Cordelia Chase could probably cope with.


End file.
